Page 112 of Rescuing Barbi

The bartender obliges without a word, refilling the glass with practiced ease.

“Thanks.” I take another sip and turn my gaze toward the flickering neon sign. It reflects my haunted eyes, a silent reminder of the torment I seek to escape—if only for a little while.

As I stare into the depths of my second drink, questions swirl through my mind. Will I ever break free from the chains that anchor me to my past? Is redemption possible for a man bathed in darkness? I shake my head, trying to drown out the haunting whispers of doubt and despair that echo within me.

Just as I’m about to take another swig, the door to the bar bursts open. A gust of icy air blows in as a group of rowdy patrons stumble into the bar; five men and one pathetic whore; a woman who’s been used, abused, and no longer fights against her oppression.

The men’s laughter reverberates through the dimly lit space, grating on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard, shattering the fragile silence that envelopes my quiet corner of the world. I can’t help but steal a glance at them, noting their raucous behavior as they jostle each other and shout over the din.

“Hey there, bartender. A round for me and my friends.” The leader of the pack cups his hands over his mouth and shouts at the bartender. Although there’s no need. It’s a quiet crowd tonight. The burly man, with his unkempt beard and eyes that gleam with malice, reeks of trouble.

The bartender obliges, pouring drinks with a forced smile. I retreat further into myself, trying to tune out the men as I sip from my glass. But their voices grow louder, more insistent, worming their way into my thoughts, despite my best efforts to block them out.

“Did you hear what happened last night?” One newcomer asks, his voice slurred and already thick with alcohol. Evidently, this isn’t their first stop for the night. “Guy robbed this dude at gunpoint. Said he begged for his life. Pathetic, huh?”

I freeze, my heart hammering against my ribcage, as memories of my crimes claw their way through the cobwebs of my mind. Desperate cries for mercy. Fear in my victim’s eyes. Power coursing through me as I stood over them and raged.

A cold shiver races down my spine, and I grip my glass, knuckles turning white. Fragments of memories I’ve long tried to bury claw their way back from the depths of my tortured mind.

“Man, that’s nothing.” Another man laughs, his words tumbling out like venom. “Remember that time we beat up that homeless guy? Just because we could?” The group erupts into laughter, each man trying to outdo the other with tales of violence and cruelty. “Dude just curled up and let us kick him. Didn’t even try to get away. Pathetic.”

I recall the faces of those I’ve hurt, the lives I’ve ruined and shudder. Rivers of guilt and shame course through me, drowning me beneath a sea of regret. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the images away, but they cling to me like a second skin, a scar that will never truly heal. That these men boast about such things? It pisses me off.

“Ah, those were the days.” Another patron chimes in, reminiscing. “We had power, money, everything we could ever want. Nobody could touch us.”

“Power is for fools.” I whisper under my breath, my throat constricting as bile rises in my stomach.

The rush of adrenaline, the exhilaration of control, the intoxicating allure of dominating others and forcing them to submitting to my will. It’s a drug that consumes me.

It turned me into a monster.

“Cheers to that!” The group raise their glasses in a toast.

My hand trembles, my glass quivering in my grasp. I can’t take it anymore—their words are like daggers, stabbing into the raw wounds of my soul. I need to get out of here.

“Hey, buddy, you alright?” One of the rowdy patrons asks, his tone mocking, his eyes filled with disdain. “What’s the matter? Can’t handle a bit of fun?”

“Leave me alone.” My hoarse voice is barely audible over the pounding in my ears.

“Aw, come on, we’re just having some fun.” The man sneers, reaching out to pat me on the back in a mockery of comfort. “Lighten up, will you?”

I can’t shake the images in my mind, the echoes of past crimes reverberate through my skull. The surrounding air seems to thicken, suffocating me beneath the weight of my guilt and the cacophony of voices that taunt me, reminding me of who I once was—and who I can never escape.

The man laughs and turns back to his friends. The walls close in around me, trapping me in a prison of my making.

Amidst the raucous laughter and jeers of the rowdy patrons, the whore’s eyes lock onto me. A cruel hand on her arm declares possession and ownership. Her pimp leans down and whispers in her ear. She takes a deep breath, plasters a sultry smile on her lips, and saunters over to me.

Her fingertips curl around the hem of her skirt. As she draws close, the scent of cheap perfume and stale cigarettes slams into me, battling for dominance with the bitter tang of alcohol that hangs heavy in the air.

“Hey there.” A sultry purr, her voice grates on me. She leans against the bar and I flinch at her invasion of my personal space. “I’m Silvie, and you look like you could use some company.”

My heavy gaze fixes on the amber liquid swirling in my glass. The silence stretches between us as I take in her tattered dress and smudged makeup.

“I’m not interested.”

“Come on, handsome.” She tries again, coaxing me, her voice softer this time. She runs her fingers along my arm in a practiced, seductive gesture. “I can help you forget whatever’s bothering you.”

“Leave me alone.”

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